“No, you didn’t. I asked you if you ever get tired of it all, and you sidestepped it pretty skillfully.”
“But it is my only purpose,” he points out logically.
A breeze has picked up strength, slipping through the cracks in the walls. It stirs my hair, cooling my skin. The air and Fear’s closeness make me shiver again. He notices. In a blur he’s crossed the room, picked up a horse blanket I brought up for cold nights like this, and draped it around my shoulders. I don’t thank him; showing gratitude would be unwise.
“You’re tired,” Fear says suddenly, sounding surprised.
I tighten the blanket, huddling into its warmth. A screaming flash hits me, an image of the boy’s shrinking pupils. I pull the blanket tighter. “I haven’t slept well, is all.”
Fear hesitates. “I … ” The hay begins to tremble again as he, again, becomes edgy. He plunges. “I could help you sleep.”
He means he could use his power. But his offer isn’t what’s out of the ordinary—it’s the motive behind it. In the strength of his uncertainty, his carefully constructed expression of arrogance has weakened, melting away to vulnerability, and I see that he isn’t thinking of himself or personal gain. His only thought is of me.
I don’t comment on my discovery. “No. I’ll manage on my own.”
Fear’s expression closes, and he nods. The distance he’s put between us is slight but palpable. “Perhaps I should leave you to your rest, then.” Deliberately formal.
I watch him stand, feeling the pierce of shovels inside me, digging the hole of inhumanity deeper, deeper. “Okay.”
The air around him practically crackles. I’ve hurt Fear’s ego by rejecting his offer of help.
“You really do feel nothing,” he says to me, voice colder than a Wisconsin blizzard. “I thought you had to feel something, even just a little. Sometimes when I touched you, or watched you, I thought I saw a glimmer of humanity.”
“I’ve never lied to you, Fear,” I murmur. “I’m good at pretending, is all.”
“Apparently.” His eyes burn. I remain seated on the bale of hay, considering my next words. Suddenly Mom’s voice slices through the tense air, distracting Fear.
“Elizabeth, there’s a phone call for you!”
She sounds as if she doesn’t expect a response—really, she doesn’t want one—but I raise my voice. “Coming.”
“Who’s calling you?” Fear demands as I brush past him to the loft’s stairs. He vanishes and reappears in front of me, blocking my way. “You have no friends.”
I walk around him, the stairs squeaking beneath my feet. “That’s not true. Maggie is my friend.”
“Not for much longer,” he retorts, following me. His presence disturbs the cows once more; they start to bawl frantically. Fear’s coat flares around his feet as he stalks me to the house.
Choosing not to acknowledge this, I lower my voice as I tell him, “You should go. My mom isn’t feeling well right now.” And I don’t want her feeling any more uncomfortable around me than she already does—if I can’t live here, I’ll have nowhere else. Fear doesn’t reply, and when I turn, I see he’s gone. A lingering sense of hurt fills the air.
As I enter the kitchen Mom does her best to appear preoccupied, avoiding me. The phone lies on a table and the cord dangles across the floor from its base on the wall. I step over it and pick the phone up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Elizabeth. It’s … it’s Joshua.”
“Hello.” I notice Mom listening; besides Maggie, no one has ever called me before, much less a boy. When Joshua says nothing in response, I add, “How are you?”
He clears his throat. “Fine. Good. You?”
“Good.”
Joshua pauses a second time, then says with a nervous waver in his voice, “So, listen—” Something in the background clatters, and I imagine him tripping over a chair. He coughs, probably in an attempt to cover the sound. “I just wanted to let you know that today in Mrs. Farmer’s class, uh, after you left, everyone chose their partners for the project. And you and me are the only ones left.”
It wouldn’t be sensible to encourage this, to begin another friendship—not when that person is as observant as Joshua, and I’ve been so distracted lately. But then there’s Courage’s advice; he’d been so frank, and for once I find myself inclined to trust an Emotion.
“That’s great,” I say, trying to sound young and just as shy as Joshua.
If he’s surprised, he does well hiding it. “Okay, neat. I mean, cool. You’ve probably already looked at the handout, but the poems and story have to have a theme to them, I guess, and I was thinking we could—”
“I’ve looked at the handout,” I interrupt, hearing Tim’s heavy tread outside. “We can talk about it more at school. Okay?”
Joshua doesn’t ask questions or try to stay on the line. “Okay. See you.”
“Bye.” I hang up. Mom is still looking at me curiously, but I don’t offer any explanations. Tim’s opening the door, the hinges groaning. I’m gone before he sets one foot into the house.
Eight
It didn’t escape me, during his last visit, that Fear never gave me an answer when it came to the newspaper. Clearly the article disappearing changed things for him, and he intends to pursue this on his own. Although Fear is an excellent liar—he’s had centuries, millennia, to perfect the art—he can’t seem to hide the truth from me. As if some part of him wants me to know. And I will know; I’m good at research.
During lunch, rather than sitting in a corner by myself like every other day, I go to the school library. The librarian, Mrs. Marble, nods when she notices me slip into the room. I move quietly to the back corner, slipping in and out of shadows between the bookshelves.
I can’t rely on Fear to find answers; as soon as those words vanished right in front of me, I’d made the decision to search for my own copy of it. Though there shouldn’t be anything strange about a story like surviving a car accident, the fact that the article faded right as I was reading it makes one fact obvious: there’s something in it worth hiding. And I’ve tried, but I can’t recollect ever hearing about the incident from my parents or anyone else—why wouldn’t they tell me?
The school archives are limited at best, but it’s the only library in Edson, so if a copy of the paper is anywhere, it’ll be here. Mrs. Marble leaves me to my search and I bury myself in the dusty corner where all the records are kept, sneezing once in a while. No one has been back here in ages.
I start by looking at dates. If I was three or four at the time of the accident, the paper should have been published in 1999 or 2000. Many of the newspapers are missing, but I look anyway.
There isn’t much excitement in this area. I see headlines like Crops Bad this Year and School Teacher Fired for Drug Use. Articles range from reports of small crimes to business spats and school events. But nothing about a little girl surviving any kind of car accident partway through 1999.
There’s no time to keep delving through the year—the bell rings overhead. My next class is U.S. History. I make sure to put away the mess; Mrs. Marble is known to hunt kids down and stand over them as they clean up their clutter in her library.
Joshua is waiting for me when I enter the classroom. Holding my book to my chest, I make my way to a desk in the back, as usual. At the sight of me Joshua pastes that same lazy grin on his face. I can’t tell what he’s really thinking—his eyes are hidden by his long hair. I smile in greeting, appearing friendly. He pulls himself clumsily to his feet and approaches. He reminds me of a newborn colt, but he’s doing better at concealing his anxiety and excitement.